“Tell me he suffered,” I say against him. “He suffered,” he replies firmly as his arms encircle my waist. “How?” “I pushed a sheet down his throat. Then, I stabbed his throat with a piece of broken mirror, and he choked on his own blood. He wasn’t fully dead when we left because I didn’t stab him in an artery. He must have suffered for a long hour or so before dying.” He is utterly void of emotion when discussing murdering a man for me. There isn’t an ounce of regret in his voice. Not even pride. He did what he did, and that’s it. I can take it or leave it. Taking it all in brings me whatever
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